For What We Could Become
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it. James M. Barrie :: angst, drama, genfic, rated for later chapters. Monkee Beginnings-fic! Enjoy!
1. Through The Dark Turns And Noise

For What We Could Become

by: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Chapter One:

The first time Micky had ever met Peter Tork, he'd been wandering down the streets of Santa Monica - if, by 'wandering', one meant 'casing the area out for easy marks with fat wallets'. It had to have been at least a week since he'd eaten anything that hadn't been left on a patio table at the local cafe, and he was pretty sure the owner was starting to catch wise. The little New Yorker seemed like a decent guy, but Micky had learned all-to-well that 'seemed' didn't mean shit in the real world. That meant that, no matter how much he didn't want to, he was going to have to start picking pockets again if he wanted to eat.

There were worse kinds of targets to cruise for, he thought to himself as he shifted up against the wall of a shop to avoid bumping into the man barreling past. He was, as Micky had noticed, wearing suede shoes and a guilty expression, and Micky ducked his head until his curls hid his eyes.

Granted, none of That Sort knew him in LA - he'd quit that scene as soon as he'd stepped off the bus from Frisco, and wasn't keen on going back. Still, even though he'd chucked his own markers into the first dumpster he'd run across, some over-blown sense of self-preservation had him crossing streets to avoid certain alleyways.

He was doing just that, in fact, when the strains of what sounded like 'Driftin' Blues' being sung by a dying whale reached his ears. That alone would have been enough to catch his attention (because, really, how many dying whales did you get to hear sing the blues, even in California?), but it was accompanied by fantastically rich, intricate guitar playing. The contrast between the guitarist and the singer was what ultimately distracted Micky from his work long enough to change his life.

On the corner of 4th and Broadway, surrounded by a gaggle of jeering onlookers, sat a young man in a kimono-style jacket over a tee shirt and jeans, playing a cheap, beat-up six-string with an absent-minded sort of brilliance and singing with great feeling, provided that feeling was 'intestinal distress'.

Micky rocked back on his heels for a moment, taking in the scene. The sun-bleached blond hair, easy smile, and bare feet screamed 'Californian' to Micky, but the trusting hazel eyes that were peering out at the audience definitely said 'tourist'. Another Free Spirit come to seek fame and fortune on the West Coast, then, and possessing of an unfortunately low level of street savvy.

Ah, well. It wasn't Micky's job to look out for all the easy targets in the world.

He was not, however, one to let opportunity pass him by, and it wasn't long before an onlooker became...aw, gee, a whole thirty-two bucks poorer.

Micky sighed as he carefully slipped the newly-emptied leather back into its owner's pocket. Let him think he blew it on souvenirs.

He should have scrammed as soon as he'd scored, but just as he was about to turn his back, the kid stopped singing and started really playing.

It wasn't a song Micky recognized. He wasn't even sure it was a song, per-say; for all he knew, the blonde could have been making it up as he went along. It arrested the pickpocket, though. He found himself entirely unable to look away from the nimble fingers as they flew over the strings, picking out melodies that seemed almost tangible. It was a sweet tune, very upbeat and Spanish in flavor, and it brought to mind white sand and crystal-clear seas.

It seemed to have a similar effect on the rest of the crowd. The sniggering faded away into absolute silence, like the whole neighborhood was holding its breath as the song was played. It would have been ridiculously easy for Micky to rob the entire lot of them blind, but aside from being a colossally stupid thing to do, he couldn't actually bring himself to move from his spot.

It seemed like forever before the last notes were fading into the air, and the blonde smiled around at his audience, who were still so mesmerized that not a one of them so much as twitched when he spoke.

"Thank you," he chirped, and Micky couldn't help but notice the distinct Northeastern accent curling in the vowels.

As the crowd slowly and dreamily dispersed, Micky approached the man, who was peeking into his upturned hat with a small frown. "I guess all the blues made them too sad to donate," he sighed, digging out the four pennies (and one hard candy) that had been tossed in at some point.

"I think 'sad' might be just the word for that," Micky put in, grinning when the guitarist glanced up. The grin faded somewhat at the remorseful expression in those hazel eyes.

"Oh, gosh, I didn't mean to upset anyone," he agonized, face flushing miserably.

Micky's eyebrows shot up. "Are you for real?"

"Well, I think so," came the honest reply. The blonde pinched himself a few times. "I feel pretty real, anyway."

Unable to help himself, Micky laughed. "Real enough for me, friend. Hey, listen, that guitar piece you did-"

"Oh, you liked it?"

"Liked it?" Micky shook his head, watching as the man packed up his guitar with a careful reverence. "Man, you could sell that sound to any record label and retire rich at thirty."

This brought a beatific smile to the blonde's face. "You think?"

"I know it, babe. That's a real neat groove you've got going on."

"It didn't sell so well today," was the despondent reply. The man tucked his pennies into his pocket, where they jingled in a lonely, hungry sort of way, and Micky noticed for the first time that the musician was a bit too thin to be healthy.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the purloined cash and dropped the two ones on top of the guitar. "Well, you've sold me, babe."

"Oh, wow!" Golden hair bounced as the man lunged forward, snatching up the bills as though they were gold pieces. "Thanks!"

"Don't mention it," Micky responded, backing away from the brilliant smile as though it might burn him. "Really," he added decisively.

He hurried away before the guy could express his gratitude again. He wasn't sure why, but the thought of being thanked for forking over two bucks and keeping thirty didn't sit right in his stomach.

Don't be stupid, he reprimanded himself. It's every man for himself in this world, and you can't go getting all bleeding-heart over some crazy troubadour just because he plays a mean guitar. He's lucky he got two bucks at all.

It wasn't as though Micky owed him anything.

Still, he couldn't help but think of the guy, probably out on another corner, trying his luck as night approached fast, while Micky sat in a diner eating dinner. And even though it was the first real meal he'd had in weeks, the burger kind of stuck in his throat a bit, no matter how much soda he tried to wash it down with.

The blonde was on the same corner the next day, drawing yet another crowd with an amusingly flat rendition of 'That's All Right', accompanied by some spectacularly lively finger-picking.

With everyone's bemused attention on the performance, it didn't take Micky long to acquire a nice little bundle of bills. He didn't even feel guilty at the pictures of small children in one man's wallet, because after all, the guy was wearing a silk tie, and fifty-four dollars would feed Micky for a while. That, plus the twenty he lifted off his other victim and the twenty left over from the day before, would mean he could wait another couple of weeks before he had to do it again.

He stuck around, though, and he was glad he did, because when his new friend caught sight of him, he launched into another impromptu guitar piece. Micky vaguely recognized this one, despite having no real knowledge of classical music, because he did have something of an education in cartoons. He had an instant vision of Donald Duck and Bugs Bunny dueling away on pianos and grinned a bit.

As the song progressed, though, the grin slipped as he contemplated the musician.

He was wearing the same jacket as before, a faded and worn thing in blues and yellows that had probably once been vibrant. His hair nearly brushed his shoulders in the back, and fell over his eyes in a fan of gold as he hunched over his instrument. It obscured his face somewhat, but Micky could see the tiny smile that seemed permanently stuck on his face when he played.

He really was stick-thin, Micky mused, trying to pretend that guilt didn't taste like ground beef and Coca-cola. The lump of cash in his pocket seemed ice-cold and red-hot at the same time, and he really, really didn't like the thought that was forming in his mind. It was too much like compassion for Micky's peace of mind.

When he approached the man this time, though, weaving his way through the murmuring crowd, he couldn't unsee the crestfallen gaze his new friend cast towards the fifteen cents in his palm.

"Another slow day, huh," Micky said lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets and grasping at his money tightly.

The guitarist quirked a smile at him. "I guess I keep catching them after they've finished shopping," he theorized.

No, Micky thought cynically, they're just a bunch of tightwad jerks who don't think twice about passing by a starving kid on their way to the bank.

"That's probably it," he said aloud.

When the guitar was packed up and the coins were deposited safely in musician's pocket, Micky held out a hand to help him up. "I'm Micky," he offered, trying not to notice how easy it was to yank the guy around. Far, far too thin, he thought.

"Peter," replied the blonde, shouldering his instrument and shaking Micky's hand civilly. "It's nice to meet you."

"Again."

"Mmhmm," Peter replied absently, tilting a bit on his feet. Micky reached out to keep him upright.

"Say, Peter, when's the last time you ate?"

Which was a stupid thing to ask, because there was no way he wouldn't feel terrible at the answer.

Sure enough, when Peter had managed to mumble, "A couple of days...like...maybe four," Micky once again found it hard to swallow.

"Hey," he heard himself say, far more gently than he'd realized he was capable of sounding, "how about I treat you to lunch?"

"Oh, that's okay," Peter hedged, shaking his head. "I've almost got enough for one of those chicken pies that went on sale."

"...you mean the frozen ones?"

"Yeah."

Micky couldn't stop himself from snickering. "And how are you gonna unfreeze it, genius?"

"Well, it's warm out here, I guess I thought if I left it out for a bit-"

"If you leave a chicken pie sitting out here, it'll be gone in five seconds flat," Micky pointed out. After all, they weren't the only hungry kids running around out here. "Come on," he insisted. "I'll buy you lunch, and you can tell me where you learned to play like that."

"Okay."

Linking their arms (partly to make sure Peter didn't wander off in a starving haze, and partly to keep him from toppling over), Micky led him towards Joey's. Sure, he was coming dangerously close to caring what happened to people who weren't him, but somewhere between the street corner and the corner booth, an idea started forming in the crookeder neighborhoods of the young man's mind. It wasn't a nice idea, it wasn't a kind idea, and it probably wasn't the smartest idea, but it made shelling out the cash for two big lunches a lot less painful.

After all, if Peter was going to be helping Micky out (even though he'd never know it), the least Micky could do was make sure he didn't waste away from hunger first.

A/N - I...have no idea. It got away from me. This was going to be an introspective one-shot. Now it's a Monkee Meeting story. WHAT EVEN AM I DOING.

The rousing tale of what Peter did with the two dollars Micky gave him, btw, will be told in CHAPTER TWO! =D

At the moment, though, it is one in the morning, and I am Monkee'd out. Leave your reviews, critiques, and immortal souls in my Inbox, please!

EDIT: I just realized Peter's eyes aren't blue. I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON I'M SO SORRYYYYYYY. ::grovels at the base of Monkees shrine::


	2. I Was Just A Boy

Chapter Two: I Was Just A Boy

The sight of Peter inhaling his lunch sat comfortably between oddly fascinating and utterly disgusting. It was like a non-stop conveyor belt of turkey and potatoes and vanilla malt, sometimes all at once. Micky had attempted, more than once, to warn the other man to slow down, lest he get sick. The guitarist would try for a bit, then slowly pick up speed again until he was doing his best to choke down half of a turkey sandwich at once.

Micky took his time, constantly reminding himself that no one was coming to snatch his meal away, that he was paying for it and that he could take as long as he needed without worrying. He'd thought that the fear of it disappearing was what fueled Peter's urgency, but talking to him, Micky couldn't detect a single mistrustful bone in his scrawny body. The idea of someone taking his lunch from him probably didn't even occur to him.

To be honest, Micky wasn't entirely sure what to make of the guy. He seemed so completely without guile, so out-of-phase with life, it was like the whole crummy, scummy world just warped around him. Like he was surrounded by an anti-reality bubble that scrubbed everything clean before it could reach him. Micky would have envied the hell out of him were it not for two things: one, that was a stupidly dangerous way to go through life, and two, he wasn't so sure he believed Peter was really like that.

"So, Pete," he began, curiosity getting the better of him, "what brought you to sunny California?"

"Well, a bus most of the way, but I could only afford as far as New Mexico, so I had to hitch the rest of the way."

"Right." Placing one hand over his eyes briefly, Micky sighed. "And why did you decide to come here?"

"Oh, well, a few reasons, but mostly because I got arrested for disturbing the peace."

Micky tried really hard to picture Peter being disorderly enough to get arrested, but all that came to mind was an image of the blonde getting given a sweet and patted on the head by a police officer and shooed away.

"Well, I've gotta hear that story."

Peter shrugged. "It's not really a good story - I was playing my guitar in the park, and people complained, so the police came and took me back home.

They said I couldn't play outside without a permit, and when I asked how much a permit was, they said it was whatever I had in my pocket, plus two hundred dollars."

Scowling, Micky dragged his fries through the remaining ketchup. "That sounds like total bull to me."

"Oh, it was," Peter said easily, shocking Micky a little. "I found out later that it was actually a lot less, but I understood why. Nobody liked me back there because they thought I'd made the mayor's son a queer."

Micky choked on his Coke, prompting Peter to start thumping him on the shoulder a great deal harder than a stick-thin kid like him should have been able to. As he wheezed, he peered up at Peter through his bangs, wondering if he wanted to know that story, as well. Peter didn't give him an option, though, launching directly into the explanation.

Apparently, he'd been shoved up against the brick wall at the back of the high school gym by Lou Mayford, the mayor's son, and the older boy had "kinda just suctioned onto my mouth like a plunger". Micky wasn't sure if he was more disgusted or amused by that - on the one hand, it sounded like an unpleasant experience. On the other, it probably would have been hilarious to watch.

Then, apparently, gym class had started, and they'd been caught. Police had been called, and worse, parents had been called. Somehow, despite Peter clearly being the kissee, Lou Mayford, the mayor's son, managed to convince everyone that Peter had made him do it.

"They kind of wanted to believe it, I guess," Peter sighed, poking into the depths of his malt with his straw. "People didn't like me because I'm strange, so they were pretty ready to believe it." He gazed up at Micky with wide eyes. "But what if I did make him queer? Oh, man, that would be awful!"

"Why?" Micky balled up his napkin and threw it at Peter's head, hitting him between the eyes. "What's wrong with being queer?"

"Oh." Leaning in, Peter lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Are you a homosexual, Micky?"

He stared at Peter for a moment. No one, absolutely no one, had ever just asked him that. There were methods, there were tells, there were signals and codes, and at the end of the day, sometimes you just knew, but...asking? Who did that? It was just asking to get the shit kicked out of you.

And really, Micky was kind of glad he'd never been asked, because up to that moment, and for a long time afterwards, he wouldn't be altogether too certain what he was. He dug chicks, that was just a given, but he liked guys, too, so what did that make him? Could you be half-queer? Did that even exist? He didn't know, hadn't known from the moment he'd found himself torn between Marcy Letts and Philip Halford in the sixth grade, only to have to bear witness to them making out against his locker the day before Christmas break started.

Man, had that been one of the best and worst days of his life. It certainly hadn't cleared anything up for him, and he'd remained as confused as ever.

That would have taken a while to explain, even if he'd wanted to go into his personal insecurities with a veritable stranger, so instead, Micky just rolled his eyes. "No. I just think people have stupid hang-ups about sex, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. But if he wasn't gay, and I made him gay, well...that's kind of mean, isn't it?" Peter twisted his straw paper between his fingers contemplatively. "I mean, because people do have all kinds of hang-ups about it. It's hard enough for people who are normally homosexual, but-"

"You can't turn people into queers, Peter," Micky intoned sternly. This, at least, he'd been pretty certain about. If Alec Thomas (his very favorite regular back in Frisco) hadn't been able to straighten him out, with his chiseled good looks and huge...shoulders, there was just no way it could be done. He was pretty sure that, despite what people liked to think, it didn't work the other way around, either.

"But-"

"You can't. Turn. People. Queer."

"Oh. Okay." Looking down at his empty plate, Peter sighed again. "So, they really just hated me, then."

A wave of nauseating sympathy swept through Micky. He was really regretting interacting with this kid at all - plan or no plan, the blonde was really starting to turn Micky soft, and that was no way to survive.

Still, for the plan to work, he needed the guy to trust him, so he leaned forward and patted Peter on the shoulder awkwardly. "People are assholes, Pete."

"Not everyone," Peter replied softly.

"Pretty much everyone."

"No," Peter shook his head. "You aren't."

Guilt, slimy and cold, writhed in Micky's stomach, and for a second, he thought his lunch might do a curtain call. He swallowed past it frantically and forced a grin. "Well, that's nice of you to say, man," he hedged. Then, inspiration struck. "Hey, how about a piece of pie?"

That effectively ended the discussion, and had the added bonus of bringing a smile to Peter's face. Micky was very sure that said smile shouldn't have been a bonus, but sad-Peter looked sort of...wrong.

One thing had become apparent during their conversation, though; Peter was not completely oblivious to the crueler aspects of humanity. In fact, he seemed to be much more in tune with people's feelings than Micky would have ever guessed, which presented him with something of a challenge.

Apparently, pulling one over on the kid was going to be more difficult than Micky had previously supposed.

He was certain that, if Peter knew what Micky wanted to do, he would disapprove. Guile wasn't just completely missing from his skill set - Micky was positive that Peter had no desire to learn that particular skill, and he was just as positive that if he did learn it, the blonde would probably be absolutely terrible at it. Add that to the fact that, when you had multiple people in on something, they started doing stupid things like thinking for themselves and deviating from the plan, and Micky had pretty solid reasoning for making Peter just another mark.

"You know," he said as blandly as possible as Peter shoveled apple filling into his mouth at a frightening pace, "I was thinking, if you want, I can help you out with your performing."

"Re-" Pausing to swallow his mouthful of flaky goodness, Peter coughed a bit before continuing. "Really?! Oh, wow, that'd be swell, Micky!"

"Yeah," Micky agreed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, swell. See, I was thinking that you were doing fine from a performance standpoint, you know? You play really well, and people really like you."

"They do?" The guitarist's cheeks flushed a bit. "Aw, that's nice of you to say, but I don't think-"

"They like you well enough, kid," interrupted Micky. "The problem isn't your playing, it's your location."

"Huh?"

"Oh, yeah. See, you gotta be in the right spot at the right time, you know? Like you said - you keep catching them after they've finished shopping, right? So," Micky continued, gesturing at the passers-by outside their window with a flourish, "you have to know where to be, and when, to get the most out of your audience."

Peter tilted his head to the side, eyes tracking the progress of a young couple as they passed. He looked contemplative, and Micky crossed his fingers under the table.

"Yeah," Peter said eventually, soft enough the Micky almost didn't hear him. Then again, louder, "Yeah, that makes sense." He smiled at Micky beatifically. "You know a lot about this stuff, huh?"

"I guess so," the brunette replied, leaning back. "I know the area, anyway, so I can help you figure out when and where you'd get the most compensation for your time."

There was another moment of silence, and Micky wasn't sure he liked the way it felt to be the one pinned under Peter's intently curious gaze. Then it was gone, and Peter was smiling again, and Micky felt himself able to breathe again.

"I guess that makes us a team."

"Yeah," Micky muttered, reaching out to clasp Peter's outstretched hand. He felt something inside wither shamefully under the warmth of his newest stooge's trusting grin. "Yeah, a team."

He couldn't get that expression out of his head, even hours later, holed up in the dilapidated motel room he'd been squatting in off-and-on. The way Peter had looked at him in those moments before he'd agreed, it had set off all kinds of alarms in Micky's brain. This had been a rotten idea from the start, but suddenly there was anxiety, a hard knot of what-ifs in his stomach that made it hard for him to sleep.

He was in it now, though, and there was no way to back out without definitely making Peter suspicious, so he would just have to stick it out to the end and pray things didn't go ass-up as usual.

Snorting to himself, he curled up on his side and tried to make himself believe, just for a second, that he had any faith left at all.

A/N - IDK. Really. I'm exhausted, and it's been a weird couple of...months. So, yeah.

Okay, and I lied - we don't find out about the two bucks yet. PATIENCE MY FRIENDS, WE WILL GET THERE.

And, yes, it is really Micky who's calling Peter thin. That should tell you something about how skinny our poor, starving musician is. =(

Onward to update Keg!


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